


Brawl

by bunnylunches



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - College/University, Barebacking, Baseball Idiots, Baseball Player Derek, Baseball Player Derek Hale, Baseball Player Stiles Stilinski, FORGOT TO ADD KNOTTING, Knotting, M/M, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Smut, aarin i hope you dont read this and disown me, bc hell yeah, i have needs aarin im but a simple man, inappropriate lube substitute, like come on y'all, shit goes down in the locker room, someone call the manners police, these boys are so rude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 10:38:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12079395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnylunches/pseuds/bunnylunches
Summary: Derek and Stiles are on the same college team. They don't quite get along.





	Brawl

**Author's Note:**

> HEY! what! is! up! working on a bunch of other stuff but wanted to chug this baby on out of my drafts so here it is. this shit is really not beta'd but if anyone wanna be kind enough to sift thru it for me and send me some notes i'd be so grateful! p self explanatory, it's just smut. hmu on my tumblr! i take requests for writing and drawingggggggg teenwolfishell.tumblr.com !
> 
> have a Great Day, ya nasties  
> -bunny

Stilinski, "Stiles" everyone calls him, stands on the mound. He's loose, but Derek isn't fooled, can see through the gangly rooky, that high school pitcher facade, and straight to the brutal fastball he's got in him. They don't get along, haven't since the beginning, and they don't end up practicing much like this. During scrimmages the team all play this little silent game, dancing around to avoid the wildfire that is Derek and Stiles when they clash. But here they are, face to face for the first time since the beginning of spring training. He can tell there's energy trying to burst out of Stiles, even while he's rolling the ball into position in his hand nonchalantly, can tell the pitcher is wound tight.  
And then the pitch. Leg hiked too high, tongue slipping back into his mouth from where it toyed with his lip, arm swinging down and out, wild. The ball comes in hot and low and Derek nearly isn't fast enough to jut his hips back and out of the way, the ball whizzing by so fast and hard it's almost like nothing Derek's ever heard. Derek drops his bat and stumbles backward, his feet unprepared to follow his hips. Just as fast as he fell he's back up, springing forward and whipping his head toward the pitcher.

  
"What the fuck was that?" Derek shouts.

  
Everyone tenses up immediately, the air changes. Stiles smirks and his shoulders fall a little bit. Derek can tell he didn't do it on purpose, wasn't actually trying to hit him, but he can't stop himself from tossing his helmet off starting over to the mound to wipe that smirk of Stiles' face anyway.

  
"Control your god damn balls, man! You fucking trying to hit me?!"

  
"If I was trying to hit you, it would have hit you!" Stiles quips back, still smirking.

  
"Fucking rooky, can't control your arm worth a shit-" He gets cut short by two of their teammates, Boyd and Leahy, pulling him back, trying to drag him back to the base.

  
"Calm the hell down, Hale. Get back on the plate." Boyd grunts, pushing against him.

  
Derek whips around, shrugging the men off of him. If he was ever known for being even-tempered he might be embarrassed at how mad he was, but that was just how he operated, quiet except for when he was loud. He grabs for his bat and helmet, takes his stance, gives a practice swing to just relieve a little tension. Stiles grabs the ball and goes through the motions so fast Derek almost doesn't have time to catch the glower he gets from the pitcher. Another fastball, so fast it's like it disappeared. Derek catches only a glimpse of it somewhere between point A and point B and otherwise it's like a ghost. He only catches sight of the ball again right before it hits him, and it hits him hard, square in the ribs.

  
He doesn't even have the chance to think about pretending it doesn't hurt because the ball forces him back and he stumbles, curls into himself and grunts. His left knee hits the ground and his bat drops right as he hears their coach yell for Stiles to get off the field. Derek is too quick though, rebounds fast enough to speed walk at the pitcher and meet him halfway, even while he's holding his side and gritting his teeth.

  
"You fucking kidding me, Stilinski?!" Derek takes an extra long stride and knocks at Stiles with both hands.

  
Stiles isn't even looking at him, is walking off the field with that smug look on his face, still doesn't look at him even when he falters backward at Derek's shove.

  
"The hell is your problem?!" Derek shoves again, wants to get a rise out of him.

  
"I told you," Stiles says, rolling his pitching shoulder as he keeps walking.

  
"If I wanted to hit you, I would." He shoots him a glance out of the corner of his eye and then Derek is livid.

  
Boyd gets to him before he can throw a punch, but god would he have thrown a good punch. Stiles keeps walking, Boyd fitting himself squarely in between them, gripping at Derek's shoulders and pushing their chest against each other. Derek winces, abs tensing against what was no doubt a broken rib on its way to healing itself. Stiles jogs into the locker room while Boyd tries talking sense to Derek, still pushing against each other relentlessly.

  
"Let him go, Boyd." Coach Finstock shouts over at them.

  
Boyd scowls. They all know Finstock is old fashioned, thinks that a little aggression builds a better ball player, but he doesn't usually encourage full out fist fights (and they're all pretty sure this is going to be full out).

  
"Alright, everyone, focus!" Finstock barks, orders everyone to get back to practice.

  
Derek storms into the locker room, send his helmet clattering to the ground to make sure Stiles hears him come in. He hears him, of course he does, but he doesn't turn around, just finishes unbuttoning his shirt and slipping it off his shoulders, toned and freckled back turned toward Derek. He refuses to be ignored from the get-go, doesn't even let Stiles know it's on before he slams the locker door shut and is shoving Stiles against, hand gripping the back of his neck.

  
"Think you're hot shit, Stilinski?" Derek spits in his ear.

  
Stiles exhales a sharp laugh and tries staring back at Derek out of the corner of his eye, hands splayed against the lockers.

  
"Even if you somehow got scouted, that fucking arm of yours would send you straight back out as soon as they realize you can't control it." Derek punctuates his sentence with a jostle.

  
"Someone's feeling talkative today, huh? Think this is the most words I've heard you say since we had that spat last month." Stiles laughs, tonguing at his bottom lip.

  
Derek follows the movement and his grip falters for just a fraction of a second. He'd be lying if he said he never got hot flashes of attraction toward Stiles, that his stomach never flipped when he saw the stretch of his arms or focused on the dip of his cupid's bow. But it didn't change the fact that he hated the kid.

  
"You think just because you can throw a fastball that anyone needs you? There's a hundred better players out there waiting for their shot on the mound. You think you're gonna get it before them when you can't curb your fucking pitches?"

  
The smile falls from Stiles' lips then, his mouth hanging slack as his breath comes out heavy.

  
"I could have hit you harder, you know." He hisses.

  
Derek flips him onto his back hard, shoving at Stiles' shoulders before pinning him still with his hands on either side of his head. He has so many furious words on the tip of his tongue but they're all stuck there, tripping over themselves before they can leave his mouth. It doesn't help that the heavy rise and fall of Stiles' bare chest was squarely in the bottom of his field of vision, trying to lure him to glance down at the muscled expanse. His wet, tinged red lips pull at him equally, threatening to break his composure or make him forget what he was doing there in the first place. And then Stiles has to do that fucking thing with his tongue again, like he knows that it's going to be the thing that breaks him.

  
And god, does it break him. His eyes flick down to Stiles' lips first, lingering for a split second before they lead him down so his collarbones, and then to the wide sweep of chest muscles and _fuck_ does he want to know what that body feels like around his cock. Derek tries to snap his eyes back up like he hadn't broken eye contact, but it's useless. Stiles weakly grimaces, a hint of what Derek thinks is a smile.

  
"You gonna hit me or what?" Stiles spits, jutting his bottom chin out, goading him on.

  
"Fuck you."

  
Derek misses it when Stiles' hand leaves his side, isn't prepared when it comes to rest softly on his hip. If he couldn't smell the twinge of arousal under Stiles' irritation he would think the pitcher was messing with him.

  
"I don't think you want to fuck around with me, Stilinski."

  
"No?"

  
Stiles slips his hand around just slightly, thumb creeping down into the v below Derek's abs. He sneers back at Stiles then, not sure where he thinks this is going, but the smell of lust is unmistakable now.

  
"Does it hurt where I hit you?" Stiles asks, his other hand slipping up Derek's side, resting on the spot the ball had nailed him earlier.

  
Derek doesn't answer, isn't sure if he could speak even if he tried. He doesn't move either when Stiles presses against his ribs, moves the pad of his thumb perfectly around the edges of the welt beneath his shirt like he knows exactly where it is even though Derek's body has healed it enough that it's basically imperceptible by now.

  
"I know about you, Hale." Stiles starts.

  
Derek's heart jumps because he thinks at first that he's talking about werewolves, but there's no way he could know about that, right? Stiles' thumb presses into Derek's rib and he feigns a wince before grabbing Stiles' wrist and ramming it into the lockers.

  
"I know your rib doesn't hurt, you don't have to fake it."

  
Derek's grip tightens on Stiles' wrist because _no fucking way_. He's been too good at covering it up to have some fucking kid out him now.

  
"My best friend is like you. I know how to spot a were-"

  
"Shut your mouth." Derek grits out.

  
"Come on, Hale, no one can hear us in here." Stiles drawls, arching his back up off the lockers and straining his wrist in Derek's grip.

  
Derek's nervous now, even though he knows no one would believe Stiles if he tried to claim someone was cheating with _werewolf powers_. There's a spike in Stiles' heartbeat then, loud in Derek's ears and strong below his palm.

  
"I know that you can smell things on people too," Stiles darts his tongue out.

  
He takes his hand off Derek's hip, lifting it up beside his head to mirror his other hand, willing Derek to grab it.

  
"Like when one of your teammates wants to suck your cock,"

  
Stiles eyes bore into him, never breaking his gaze for a second.

  
"When someone wants you to pin them down and fuck them blind."

  
It takes all of Derek's strength not to groan when he hears the words pass through Stiles lips. He grabs Stiles' offered wrist before crashing their lips together, not giving himself any time to hesitate or think too hard on it. Stiles is automatically moaning as soon as Derek's tongue snakes its way between his teeth and now that there's no space between them the smell of Stiles' lust is suffocating. Derek presses Stiles' wrists harder into the locker until he bucks his hips and whimpers into Derek's mouth. Even through the haze Derek still just wants to get a rise out him. Stiles whimpers again even though Derek lets up and it makes him break the kiss for just a moment.

  
"I need," Stiles writhes against the locker, panting like a dog.

  
"I need this cup off."

  
Derek barks out a laugh because this is the first time he's seen Stiles like this, desperate and uncomfortable. He raises his eyebrows in amusement, nearly gleeful at the opportunity to assert power over Stiles finally.

  
"Please." He huffs out.

  
Derek responds by slotting his leg between Stiles', nudging up with his knee against his cup. Stiles lets out a mixture between a yelp and a moan and it's music to Derek's ears. He leads Stiles' right hand down and to the top of his pants.

  
"Me first." Derek insists.

  
Stiles grits his teeth but complies, flicking open Derek's belt and reaches into his pants like he's done this a million times before. Derek uses his free hand to reach up and cup Stiles' jaw, thumbing at his lip while he works open the snaps on his jockstrap. Surprisingly, Stiles doesn't waste time with teasing, just slips the cup out and lets it clatter to the ground at their feet before grasping at the top of Derek's pants, pulling down on them and pulling Derek's cock from the confines of his jockstrap like his life depends on it. Derek slips his thumb past Stiles' lips, pressing gently at his soft tongue.

  
"This why you're such a pissant all the time?" Derek sneers.

  
Stiles grabs at his cock, the pressure unlike anything Derek has ever felt. He bucks up into Stiles' hand.

  
"Frustrated 'cause you've been desperate for a fuck?"

  
A soft moan escapes Stiles lips and Derek smiles mischievously. He leans in, turning Stiles' head to the side to murmur into his ear.

  
"Maybe it's because you get off on it, when you get me mad."

  
Stiles moves his hand up Derek's cock, hand trembling.

  
"Or maybe it's because you know what I am," Derek presses his lips in close, breathing against Stiles' cheekbone.

 

"Know what I can do to you."

  
Stiles whimpers, his hand struggling to maintain the slow pace it's set on Derek's cock. Derek gets impatient then, grabs Stiles' shoulders and pushes him down. As soon as Stiles' knees hit the ground he's scrambling for his own pants, hurries getting the cup out of his jockstrap like he'll lose his mind if he doesn't. Derek grabs his cock and then almost braces himself on the lockers with his other hand before he realizes he can lace his fingers through Stiles' hair instead, still slightly damp with sweat. And jesus the _sound_ Stiles makes when Derek guides his cock between his lips and down the length of his tongue is otherworldly, better than Derek's wet dreams could have imagined.  
He starts slow initially, pushing his cock deep into Stiles' throat until he had to let up for him to breath while Stiles strokes feverishly at his own cock. He pushes in deep like that a few times, relishing the feeling of the back of Stiles' throat shifting around his cock before he can't resist anymore, can't stop himself from picking up to a punishing pace. Stiles simply complies, never pulls back even through whimpers and spluttering coughs, only seems encouraged with Derek's roughness.

  
"Ssshhhit." Derek hisses, jaw hanging open as he stares down at the pitcher around his cock.

  
Stiles pulls against Derek's hand on a particularly deep thrust, but he pulls toward him, pushes his head farther down like he needs it more than air. He gags, hands coming up to grip Derek's thighs, but he stays put, let's his tongue massage Derek's dick even as he struggles to breathe. Finally, he lets up, thick drool connecting his mouth to Derek's cock and starting to drip down his chin. Stiles looks up through heavy lidded eyes, lips pink and wet, cheeks suddenly more flushed than Derek has ever seen them during training. While he still hated him, couldn't bear to be around him, he couldn't deny that he was beautiful like this.

  
"Please..." Stiles pants out.

  
He doesn't ask for anything specifically, looks like he almost doesn't know he just spoke the word, but Derek let's him have it, shoves his cock back down his throat and pushes his head down, gripping harshly at his hair, sets the pace again until Stiles' chin is wet with bubbling drool and precum. They change the pace a few times, ebbing and flowing, until Derek's mind is clouded and all he can think about is finding out what it's like to push his cock into Stiles' ass instead.

  
"Stop." Derek orders, pulling at Stiles' hair so he's looking back up at him.

  
Stiles tongues at his bottom lip again and Derek can't fucking stand this kid, needs to fuck him more than anything in the world. He pulls up on Stiles hair before switching to maneuver him by the back of his neck instead, pushing his face back up against the lockers and pulling his hips back. Stiles reaches up to brace his arms on the sides of his head, turning slightly in a halfhearted attempt to watch Derek pull his pants over his ass, just down to his thighs, obviously not interested in getting either of them fully undressed.

  
"Finally." Stiles sneers into his arm.

  
Derek spits onto his cock, rubbing it slick, before spitting down onto Stiles' asshole, teasing it in with the head of his dick. If Stiles was going to be impatient Derek was going to give him what he wanted.

  
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Stiles winces, the head of Derek's cock suddenly pushing past the tight muscles.

  
Derek reaches again for Stiles' hair, wants to pull the pitcher back onto his cock just to show him who's in charge. Stiles hisses in pain, grits his teeth.

  
"You're too fucking big, jackass." He spits out through his teeth.

  
He knows Stiles is right, knows he's never been able to fuck anyone without lube, but he rolls his eyes anyway.

  
"Stay here." Derek orders.

  
He strides to one of their teammate's locker that he knows has a small bottle of glove oil in it. He isn't entirely sure what kind of oil it is, knows that different brands use different ingredients, but he's too impatient to read the label and knows Stiles is probably more so than him.

  
"Is that fucking glove oil? Ugh, gross..."

  
Derek shoots Stiles a glower as he walks back over, hand gripping one of his fit ass cheeks, thumb brushing his hole roughly.

  
"I thought you wanted me to _fuck you blind_?" Derek growls as he tucks his thumb deep into Stiles without warning.

  
Stiles just keens and pushes his ass back, muscles tensing in frustration.

  
"Just fucking do it."

  
Derek pops the cap of the oil, dribbling it down the cleft of Stiles' ass, thumbing it into him tauntingly slow before lining his cock up again, pouring some more oil onto himself for good measure. He resumes his grip on Stiles' hair and pulls him back, pushes at the same time so that in one fell swoop he's halfway in. Stiles cries out, hand gripping at his own cock as his knees threaten to buckle. Instead of starting slow like before, Derek immediately picks up into a hard, fast rhythm. He grips at Stiles' jockstrap with his free hand, twisting the elastic to the point of uselessness and he barrels into him.

  
"Not such a big shot now, are you?" Derek grunts, but he's almost positive that Stiles can't hear him over the insane sounds escaping his mouth.

  
Out of all of the people he's fucked, and he's fucked quite a few, he's never seen anyone so ready for it as Stiles was. This guy was straight from a porno, from the way he egged Derek on when he first came into the locker room to the fantasy-worthy moans and grunts he let out every time he slammed back into him. He takes pity on Stiles' face, pressing hard into the locker with each thrust, and wraps an arm around his chest, pulling him up and walking them forward, pressing Stiles' chest against the lockers while leaving enough room for him to jut his hips back. Stiles is gripping at his balls, willing himself not to come yet. From this position, Derek can press his mouth close to Stiles' ear, can make sure he hears him over his own moans.

  
"At least you're a better fuck than you are a pitcher." Derek spits lowly.

  
Stiles grunts when Derek ends his sentence with a particularly hard thrust.

  
"Fuck you. If we both make it out there I'm gonna strike your ass out every single time." Stiles grinds out.

  
Derek chuckles softly, doubting either of them are going to get there at this rate. He slides his arm up, pushing two fingers into Stiles mouth. He takes them happily, wrapping his lips around them in a completely obscene reminder of how good his mouth is for fucking. Derek slows his pace but ramps up his force, smashing into Stiles so hard it crushes his hand between his body and his cock. But Stiles' eyes just roll into the back of his head, his jaw hangs open with Derek's fingers still in it as he chokes out an ecstatic whimper. After that, all Stiles can do it flutter his eyelids and let out stifled, short cries of pleasure, angling his hips to try to get Derek's cock pushing against his prostate every time he fuck back into him.

  
Derek feels his orgasm building, can feel his cock tense inside of Stiles, slipping roughly through the quickly depleting oil, and he knows he wants to see Stiles' face when he cums inside of him, knows he needs to remind him who's in charge. He pulls back, all the way out of Stiles, before shoving at him to get on the ground.

  
"On your back." He breathes roughly.

  
Stiles follows the order, but god if he doesn't look conniving while doing it somehow, all heavy lids and smirked lips. They both wordlessly work to remove their cleats and pants, well practiced hands making easy work for the uniforms. Derek doesn't bother with his socks or jockstrap (which is already soiled by oil anyway), and Stiles follows suit. Finally, Derek knees between Stiles legs, wedging himself into position with an effortless lift of Stiles' legs and shoving back in. It's rougher this time, the oil having absorbed and spread mostly, but Stiles is stretched now, hole welcoming him in easily. Derek grabs at Stiles' wrists, pins them both under one hand as he looms over the pitcher.

  
"Gonna fucking knot you, Stiles." Derek realizes this is the first time he's ever used the nickname.

  
Stiles keens at the mention and Derek takes the opportunity to interrupt the sound with a sharp thrust. The look on Stiles face is euphoric, all trace of impish smugness completely wiped away by the simple act of fucking into him with wild abandon.

  
"Look at you, taking my cock in the locker room like you just couldn't wait. Bet you've been thinking about this since we met."

  
Stiles moans a reply, mouth moving in a weak attempt at forming words.

  
"I can tell you love it, you know. Can tell because you've finally fucking shut up for once."

  
Derek drives into him fiercely, soon enough unable to even make words himself. As an afterthought, he brings the hand not on Stiles' wrists down to his cock, spitting down onto it and jerking him in time with his hips. He wants to hum filthy words at Stiles, like how he's going to make him come on his knot, or how he's not going to be able to pitch for days after this, or how he already has so many lewd ideas for their future. Instead he just looms closer, face to face with Stiles as he furiously fucks and moves his hand, chasing both their orgasms simultaneously.

  
It's Stiles who comes first, cum shooting up and hitting him under his eye before leaving a trail all the way down to his belly button. He comes unlike anything Derek has ever seen before, eyes locked on his even though it looks like a struggle to keeps them open. Somehow it's defiant, like he wants Derek to know he wanted to be fucked just as much as Derek wanted to fuck him. And if that wasn't just exactly like Stiles to do. It simultaneously freaks Derek out and punches him in the gut, his own orgasm following immediately after. He initially stills before minutely bucking his hips, his wolf subconsciously pushing his seed deeper and deeper. Derek has enough active brain cells knocking together to lean back and catch a glimpse of the last of his cum shooting out as he pulls away from Stiles, painting the flushed pucker before pushing back in posessively. The smell of both of them mingling in the air together makes him want to howl and claw at the ground. If he had any less self control he's sure he would have shifted by now. But then,

  
"Holy, fuck," Stiles pants out, eyes wide.

  
"Your, eyes."

  
Derek realizes immediately his eyes must be glowing, but he can't stop it now, not when his knot is growing inside of Stiles and distracting him with the sensation of _breeding_ the infuriating human.

  
"Oh fuck!" Stiles yelps when he finally registers Derek's knot, all thoughts of his freakish monster eyes vanishing.

  
Stiles' hips buck involuntarily, like his knot pressing against his prostate sent one last shock of orgasm through him. He flinches slightly and they both understand that this at least wont feel pleasant at first for Stiles. Derek, however, is riding on a werewolf high to end werewolf highs.

  
"Practice ends in forty-five minutes," Derek breathes down at Stiles.

  
"We'll probably make it in thirty." He laughs, one final power play for the day.

  
Stiles groans and throws his arms over his eyes.

  
"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

 

\-- epilogue --

 

It's finally April, two days before their first game of the season. Stiles and Derek are off in the outfield, farthest out from everyone else. Stiles pitches are still wild, still hard and fast, but his arm is practiced now, firm and fluid as he throws a curveball. Derek nearly misses it, only pops it because he knows Stiles' pitches so well by now. They taunt each other, toss harsh words back and forth sometimes, but damn if they didn't push each other harder than anyone else can.  
Finstock and Boyd eye them from a distance, Finstock snapping his gum proudly as he watches.

  
"See, sometimes you just need to let 'em brawl it out."

  
Boyd rolls his eyes. If his heightened sense of smell knows anything, and it always does, those boys definitely haven't been "brawling," at least not in the traditional sense of the word.


End file.
